The Lady and The Punk
by TheNakedApe
Summary: Just a quick fill for the age difference Faberry week prompt. Punk!Quinn Rich!Rachel.
1. Chapter 1

Just a fill for the age difference Faberry week prompt. I know I am late but better late than never, unless this sucks of course. In that case just ignore it and keep living life lol.

If there are mistakes sorry.

The Lady and the Punk

The two of you don't particularly like each other. You see it in the way that she regards you, with a disdainful squint, as you ruffle your choppy cotton-candy strands of hair, burp, and then tear into your well-done steak.

But it's fine, because you aren't particularly fond of how she always leaves the cap off of the toothpaste on those mornings after you've fucked her into a coma the night before.

Anyway, it was her idea to come to this restaurant. It always is, and you know that she only takes you to these haughty places because she struggles with which direction her moral compass glides. No strings sex behind her husband's back with somebody that has pink hair, a nose ring, and a vagina is a tough one indeed. Sure, you get it - that she thinks that she can't possibly be a bad person if she takes you out to dinner every now and then, and spends her husband's money on expensive meals that line your stomach.

But she's wrong, and you know that she knows it. Even so, you've decided that you'll play along, because the sex is good. Besides, who the fuck are you to turn down a free meal and a bottle of champagne?

The two of you usually don't talk during these outings. This one's been a smidge different though. She's tried to make small talk, to which you've shrugged and hummed. You normally just sit across from one another, chambered by this stony on-edge silence whilst you wolf down whatever it is that you couldn't pronounce when you'd browsed the menu. The food's hit and miss. A reheated hot-pocket and a few joints sat in front of the television is much more your style.

"Hurry up and finish your meal," Rachel suddenly whispers past the small vase of flowers that sit centre of the table. It's almost like she doesn't want to draw any attention - like she's doing something other than talking to a friend over dinner. Like she's doing something wrong.

You want to let her know that she should stop being so obvious, but that falls second to, "do you want me to get indigestion, Rachel?" you whisper back, smirking up at her through your eyelashes as your cheek revolves around your mouthful. "If I eat any faster, it's not gonna be good. I may throw up, and we both know that when I'm down there," you breathe, flickering your eyes in the direction of the tensing brunette's crotch, "you never need any help with lubrication, so let's leave me vomiting out of the equation."

She's unamused and antsy, just as you'd known she would be. In fact, she seems downright offended. "Must you be so crude? God, you are such a pig!" she scoffs, seemingly horrified at the images that you've conjured in her head. She snaps her tongue off of the roof of her mouth, and peers off, irritated.

You know that she wants to fuck you. She sort of gets this way when she wants sex. Mean and haughty. It probably shouldn't make you as wet as it does. But nothing strokes the fire in your loins like knowing that this affluent, uptight, well kept, lady doesn't want to be attracted to you, but is anyway - can't help herself and hates you for it.

It's just the type of dysfunctional relationship that you like.

"You're gorgeous when you're mad," you tell her, an eyebrow quirked as you chew and peer hooded-eyes straight at her.

She rolls her eyes and pets the collar of her coat, but says nothing, which just makes that bundle of nerves in your panties thrum more emphatically.

"God, I can't wait to get you back to my place," you growl lewdly, pushing your almost empty plate aside.

Rachel closes her eyes, her jaw constricting almost painfully as she fights whatever war that she has going on inside of her.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you quietly request, smirking. "Tell me how much you want to touch my soft warm toned body."

Rachel allows her eyes to slowly glide to yours, but continues to say nothing.

"What? Don't let my rebellious exterior fool you; every girl needs to be told that she's desirable."

"You are the most obnoxious, crude, misfit that I have ever had the misfortune of meeting!" Rachel bursts, though it comes out in quiet harsh rushes of breath, like jets of hail to the face. And speaking of faces, her face has filled a deep dark bruising red.

You're pleading with whatever controls this reality - be it God or Santa Clause - that Rachel storms off, if only so that you can get a look at that ass in those slacks, before going after her and touching her until she comes with breathy insults about how disgusting she thinks you are on her lips.

The thought has you breathing deep.

Your memories, so vivid, make it so that you can almost smell her right now; that sweet feminine scent that boasts, within it, something distinctly Rachel.

"Can we save the insults for the bedroom, hot stuff?"

"That's it!" she whispers, and there's an air of finality to it that slowly slackens your flirtatious smirk. "I'm not going back to your apartment. I can't stand you right now, Quinn!"

Maybe you're missing something because the two of you have done this dance many times, and Rachel's never said that she wasn't going to come back to your place.

But now she is, and it rattles the dynamic of your relationship with her.

Setting two fingers amongst the soft but tussled pink strands that grow out of your head, you scratch your scalp and frown. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Rachel?" you ask, suave and husky with a touch of just enough emotion to paint a picture of your irritation.

"I'm out to dinner with an asshole. That is what is wrong with me!"

"Well what the fuck did I do?" you drawl melodically, keeping it light. Keeping your cards close to your chest. You watch the woman across from you.

She blinks, glances off to the side, runs her hand through her soft mane, and sighs. "It doesn't matter. Let's just..." Her big doe eyes dart towards the exit. "Let's go."

"Back to my place?"

"No!"

You sigh, kind of. Letting Rachel in on your need for her isn't something that appeals to you, at all. Letting anyone in on your need for them just... nope.

Standing up, you snatch your black beanie from where it had been laying next to the salt. "If you don't tell me what's up, I'll kiss you right here," you whisper, prodding the table, "for all to see."

She snatches your forearm, tosses a few hundred dollar bills to the table, and drags you into the back of her limo.

There's so much space in the limo; there's no hiding from the fact that you're sat, shoulder to shoulder, because you want to be and not because you have to.

But just because you want to feel her shoulder on yours, doesn't mean you're not a little heated about what's going on. You passed on _free_ weed for her!

"I blew off a bong session with some friends for this, and you're just going to send me home without letting me go down on you?" is out of your mouth before you can police it. But now that it's out, why not just go with it?

"Quinn!" Rachel exclaims, all hands and big expressive scolding eyes.

Her abrupt motions cause you to halt. Not just because they're sexy as hell, but because you were not expecting them.

"It's that time of the month. The painters are in," Rachel enunciates. "I'm not that sort of girl!"

"Oh," you utter. "Well why did you call me?" you wonder aloud, scooting a few inches away from her warm petite body, because you know how funny you get about personal space when your painters are in. You broke a guy's nose once for hanging all over you during your time of the month.

"It doesn't matter, Quinn."

"Wait - you just wanted to spend time with me?"

Rachel pretends to find something on the other side of the tinted window interesting. There's nothing interesting on the other side of it though...

Rachel had just wanted to spend time with you. It's a notion as shocking as aliens visiting earth. You've known each other for a month. An online porn site that you sometimes pose topless for, when rent letters stack up too high, brought the two of you together. She'd emailed Rob Sparks, the admin of the website, and offered up a neat sum of ten thousand dollars to meet you. Since that first meeting, wherein the chemistry between you almost singed your nose crispy, she's been calling you, and she only calls when she wants to get off... preferably in your mouth, which you have absolutely no problem with at all.

You love it! Everything about it, including the fact that she's this uptight, sheltered, older woman who is married to some arrogant rich asshole.

So what?

You fucking love it!

You're a bad person, and everybody knows it, especially Rachel, which is why you're a little frazzled about the fact that she wants to spend time with you, without the allure of sex, given the struggle that she battles when it comes to her morals and all.

You toss a thumb back at the restaurant. "So, what, that was, what, like supposed to be a date?"

"No, I..." Rachel seems to just stop giving a damn towards the end, and her answer dies with her will. "I'm married..." she decides to guilt herself.

You scoff, rolling your eyes off towards your window. "Little too late for that princess. I know how your come tastes."

She sighs. "How many times have I told you to refrain from calling me princess? Yes, I have a well off family, but I have worked for every cent -"

"Was this just another bone that you were trying to throw yourself?" you interrupt, because you don't particularly want to hear about how she has single-handedly built her singing school from the ground up again. Plus, you want to know if she'll confirm your suspicions. "If you take the internet porn site model out on a real date, then somehow that makes you less -"

Rachel huffs. "You possess the emotional intelligence of a shoe, Quinn."

Usually you love it when she gets huffy, love it when she insults you. But there's something different about this time. So you snap, "my capacity for emotional intelligence is high grade actually, princess. Don't confuse my lack of fucks to give for emotional bankruptcy, thanks."

"Well then you'll already know that I've begun to develop feelings for you!" she yells, all hands and big eyes and petulance. "I didn't want to, Quinn. Believe you me. But I am, despite the fact that you're completely wrong for me! That's what this was, and it was highly unsuccessful, because all you care about is sex, and you're highly immature!"

You adjust your beanie, and let silence soothe your sore eardrums for a moment.

"I don't know what I was thinking - bringing you here. We come from different worlds. You're nineteen and I'm thirty-five. I have to be a certain way, and you, quite frankly, are a delinquent. You're an emotional cripple, and I feel immensely. I'm married to an angry asshole who..."

That catches your attention. You look at her, scanning her thoroughly. "He hits you?"

When Rachel shakes her head, you suspect that she's lying. It sets a fire in your fingertips. They fluster beneath black shiny nail polish, dancing like they need to pee.

You grew up watching your mother slap on extra layers of make-up to cover up your father's wasted boxing talent.

The need to plant a stick of dynamite in Rachel's husband's exhaust pipe burns through you, and you know that you have to teach him a lesson. "I'm gonna get him."

"Quinn -"

You shush her protests. "We both know that I'm not gonna listen to you, so save it."

"He doesn't hit me - why do you even care? I thought that this was just about sex for you?"

She's fishing for a commitment, or something, from you. You know that she knows that you know that. "I'm an asshole." You nod, like you're wedging the idea into place. "I'm an even bigger asshole when I'm with you, because I know that it turns you on, even though you hate that it does. But I'm a person beneath the character that you paid ten grand to have sex with."

"I did not pay to have sex with you. I simply wanted to meet you because your pictures intrigued me."

You jut your head back and quirk a wry eyebrow. "I intrigued your pussy, Rachel. You wanted to have sex with me. I mean, what would two women from two completely different worlds, as you've just said yourself, have in common, besides fucking?"

Rachel takes on a sheepish glow.

"I like what we have how it is. It's fun -"

"Fun?" Rachel scoffs, shaking off her blush. "You never let me touch you. The last time I tried you almost broke both my wrists pinning them to your sofa. I call, we meet up, we trade insults, and then you go down on me. I never thought that I'd say this, but..."

You narrow your eyes at her. She's beautiful, even when hesitant. Especially when hesitant.

"I'm bored of being touched. I want to do things to you too," she confesses, eyeing you for a reaction.

"Like what?" you ask, because your pussy is intrigued.

"A lot of things."

"Like, you wanna do me with a strap-on," you state with a grave voice, and all the seriousness of police officer. She seems like she'd relish the power of having a cock to fuck you with.

Rachel shrugs. "Maybe."

"I get pleasure from pleasuring you. That's better than an orgasm to me. I guess you could call me a stone butch, though I don't look like one." You shrug. "I walk to the beat of my own drum. Plus I don't like penetration."

"I see. So you're not prepared to compromise so that I can experience pleasure from pleasuring you?"

"No," you answer, peering at the visibly disappointed brunette. "I take from people all day every day. But in bed I'm a giver."

"Well I'm not going to force you," Rachel says, lifting her chin to shake her vulnerability out of the air. "If you don't want some novice fumbling all over you then I guess I understand."

"Quit trying to guilt me into telling you that you're probably an amazing top. You're probably not. It's a lot of hard work, and takes practice. But if you're bored, we have a problem."

Rachel pets her hair smooth. "I'm... not bored. Who gets bored of having a reasonably attractive person make them come, especially after years of not even knowing that women _could_ come?" she asks, before following up with, "you gave me my first ever orgasm. I would just like to reciprocate."

"I've had plenty, but thanks." You chuckle. "And reasonably attractive, huh? All those models on the site, and you sought me out. I'd say that I give you immense girl wood every time you so much as think about me. You think that I'm stunning and have exquisite bone structure, even though I have pink hair and a metal hoop in my nose, which is what you emailed to Rob if I remember correctly."

"You're such a pig."

"Yeah, such a pig that you are dying to top the shit out of me."

"If only to shut you up."

That one sort of silences you, because whenever you do orgasm you're always a fit of shallow raspy pants and sharp abrupt movements, not that Rachel knows that. She's kind of the same, so quiet yet so animated.

"Quinn?"

"What?"

"We should stop what we're doing."

Those words have been a long time coming. You'd been expecting them after the first time that you'd had her warm thighs tremble around your cheeks, when she'd stumbled off to get dressed on stringy legs.

But they never came.

"Okay," you respond cautiously. "I'm not going to force you either."

"So this is it?" Rachel asks, unsure.

"I guess."

"See? The emotional intelligence of a shoe."

You laugh quietly. "I'm not gonna placate you, princess. Make a decision and own it. That's what life is."

She steers those luscious brown eyes towards your face, holding you under them. "I want to divorce Dustin."

You don't balk or anything, since nothing really surprises you these days. If school shootings don't startle you anymore, then Rachel vocalizing her need to leave her crappy husband hasn't got a chance. But you can tell that it's big to her. Not shocking, but big.

"So divorce him, and if he gets mad when you tell him, call me and I'll kick the shit out of him and walk out with his coveted golf club collection."

Rachel sniggers to herself. "Stereotype much? Not every man who has money golfs."

You shrug. "I'm nineteen and I'm a bit of a wild child. So if you're thinking that you'll just divorce him and then ride off into the sunset with me then -"

"Quinn, I don't want to have your children or anything within the vicinity of it. I'm fully aware of who it is that you are. So you can stop shitting bricks, okay?"

"I wasn't!" you quickly argue. Perhaps too quickly. "I'm not!"

"Own it," she retorts. "You have glaring intimacy and commitment issues."

How many times have you heard that line in your life? A dangerous number of times to be precise. All the older women who you've stolen from rich powerful men have wanted to touch you back, just like Rachel does, and they all highlighted your fear of intimacy the moment they saw that you were not going to let them.

"I don't have intimacy issues," you part with, slinging your grip into the door handle and rattling it when the door doesn't pop open to accommodate your swift exit. "Open this God damn door," you say calmly.

"Why?" Rachel asks, looking genuinely confused.

That's the way you like it. People can't figure you out most of the time, and that is fine by you. More than fine actually.

"I want to go back to my apartment - Kurt!" you yell at the driver. Your voice seems to hold enough gusto to make him throw a lingering look over his shoulder.

He smiles like he has just joined the room. Like he hasn't been in on your conversation with Rachel from the start. "Yes?"

"Take me back to my apartment."

"Sure."

Once the car starts to take off, Rachel decides to say something instead of staring holes into the side of your face whilst you block her - along with everything else - out.

"Quinn!" she repeats a little louder this time.

You sigh, looking at her with a dry smile. "Yes?"

"It's not really that time of the month... I lied."

"That's great for you, princess."

"You're pissed off because I brought up your issues, but you never have any problem pointing out mine!" Rachel snaps.

"This is about sex! This isn't a therapy group!" you erupt. "I hardly know you. I'm not gonna talk to you about deep shit."

"Fine!"

Before the tires can roll to a complete still, you're out of the limo and inside your apartment. Just being surrounded by your own things, and the dirty pile of clothes that Santana has obviously forgotten to put in the machine provides you with a sense of comfort.

But then your phone bleeps, and before you answer you know it's her name that you'll see on the screen. "Hey," you answer, kicking your boots off, and tugging your beanie from your head.

"Can I come up?" she asks sort of demurely.

Honestly, you kind of just want to be alone. You're moody like that. But Rachel wants to come up and let you touch her body, and her voice sounds so fucking adorable right now. "Yeah, but no moaning about how untidy it is this time. I left my drill sergeant of a mother back in Lima Ohio for a reason."

You hear her small intake of breath. "You're a real brat aren't you?"

"No more than you, princess."

"No sex this time," she says.

It takes a moment for you to process the few words. You're quiet for some time, and you think about how many of her free minutes you're probably wasting. Rachel wants to spend time with you. God knows why, but whatever.

There's half a joint in the ashtray on the windowsill. You glance at it longingly. "I'm not what you're looking for, Rachel. I'll only screw you over, and then we won't be able to have sex anymore. Tell me that that's how this isn't gonna go," you challenge her softly. The space between you has done you good.

"I am not asking for marriage and children. Just that we talk when we are in the same space as one another, as opposed to stealing glances at our watches, and counting down the seconds to when your head is going to be between my legs."

You do do that, and you've noticed that she's the same. You should have known that she was lying about being on her period from when she'd told you to hurry up and finish your meal earlier. The both of you are impatient when it comes to each other. "Whatever," you say, "just promise me that the insults won't stop. They turn me on, especially when we're having sex. If we become friends you're going to be less likely to call me a disgusting pig."

"I promise, you filthy animal."

You smirk ever so slightly, and press your thumb to the door buzzer on the wall. "Okay. Come on up."


	2. Chapter 2

Hey. Some of you guys seem to think that I am good at this writing thing, so I guess this is now a two shot :)

**The Lady and the Punk**

Chapter Two

Like you'd known that they would, the insults have stopped.

When every muscle in Rachel's body winds so tight and defined that you feel she may snap in your arms, it's now with raspy utterances of how sexy she thinks you are, bumbling clumsily on her lips.

Somehow you don't mind.

There are bigger fish to fry anyway, like how she stalks every detail of your face when she thinks that you've drifted off into deep slumber beside her. Sometimes you feel the mattress shift, the feather-like warmth of a fingertip hovering just inches above your right eyebrow. Never the left. It's always the right, which you've recently gotten pierced.

Those things about you that she's always seemed so conflicted about are now a pure source of arousal for her, you're certain. It's clear in the way that she compliments the variety of nose rings that you alternate through, and in the way that she suggests punk clothing stores from her neighborhood. Ones that she thinks you'd like. It's all evidence of the fact that you've officially infected her, with your touch, your tongue. Your lewd hooded gaze. And this is the part of the tale where you'd usually get bored and opt out, even changing your number if necessary.

There's actually a tub of unused Vodafone SIM cards that lives in your apartment, and you've found yourself glancing at it.

But something keeps you away, and you sort of hate yourself for it.

She's getting much too comfortable with your apartment too. It may not have the long winding gold-trimmed hallways that she's used to - far from it. But she's been making herself at home anyway, waltzing up to your front door with arms that are barely capable clasped around multiple bags of shopping, and if she's staying over for the night, she'll often turn the dinky little television in your room on, because she can't afford to miss her TV shows.

She's got to go. You know it, Santana knows it, and you're pretty sure that _she_ does too. But she seems to be drawing it out, squeezing out every last second and every last touch...

"Quinn!" she yells, petulantly thudding a closed fist to the mattress.

The shrill cry and the minor turbulence - it does its job. It gets your attention.

You roll bored eyes towards her. Really you just want to get high and kill some zombies on the games console. "What, princess?"

She points a finger at the TV and snuggles up closer to you, the strobe lights flittering over her intrigued face. "Who do you think should be sent home?"

This is what your life has come to; you're involuntarily sort of dating a hot older married woman, **involuntarily**, and she's managed to rope your eyes into American Idol long enough for her to be able to ask you who you think should be axed this week. She's like one of those cats that make space to burrow themselves into where there was no space to begin with.

It's ridiculous.

"Don't any of your rich pals miss you?" you ask instead of throwing out some random name and hoping that it's what one of contestants is called.

It's serious now. You know and feel that it's serious as soon as Rachel points the remote at the TV and the volume quickly decreases to nothing. She draws herself out of your warmth, peering at you bold and unblinking. "If you've got something to say, Quinn, then how about you just say it."

You ruffle your hair where it's been flattened by the headboard just behind and then sigh, because when did _anything_ become so difficult for _you_ to say?

You may not have found her cauldron yet, but this woman **is** a witch, you're sure of it. That's the only explanation for why you kind of feel like you should choose your words wisely.

But, of course, you don't, because it's not often that you go with your feelings. "I didn't sign up for this - nights snuggled up in front of the TV watching American Idol."

"I heard you humming along to one of the performances, so do not act like you're not enjoying the show, Quinn."

She's absolutely right. The show's not the problem here, even though it's boring as donkey shit.

You whip the covers off of your body and pull open the drawer that houses your Marijuana obsession. Inside of it, your little pink lighter waves at you, telling you that you'll feel much better once you're blazed.

You believe it. You always do.

"I'm gonna go for a smoke, and when I get back I'm fucking some zombies up on the Xbox!"

"You are _such_ a jackass!" Rachel yells after you. "Come back in here and talk to me, like an adult!"

With each inhalation of smoke that strikes your lungs and hazes your head, you wonder what the fuck she thinks she's doing.

More importantly you wonder what the fuck you think you're doing. You know Rachel's type. Highly emotional, extremely sensitive, and needy.

The two of you are a match made in lesbo hell, for the simple fact that it intrigues you to see people starving for the reassurance that they need from the world, and from the people close to them.

You're kicking yourself because you should've known that this was going to happen.

"The fuck you and the midget arguin' about now?"

The moment that Santana steps out into your line of vision, all wrapped up against the cold, you shrug and offer her the joint, which she takes with a smirk.

You're supposed to be cutting back on weed anyway, because money is tighter than Rachel's perfect little waistline.

Santana's brow crumples and her cheeks draw in around the joint as she tokes, lighting up the ember at the end. She's always been nice to look at.

Maybe if you tell Rachel about how much sex went down when you and Santana first moved in together, she'll decide that you're not worth it and go back to her life of money and upscale events.

"C'mon. Open your mouth and speak, Q," Santana prompts you, blowing a long grey stream of swirls from her plump lips.

"She's annoying the crap outta me," you concede, staring out over the expanse of your communal garden. It's full of your neighbor's junk, old muddy toys and unwanted rolls of muddy carpet and shit.

"Well she buys us groceries and cooks sometimes, so you need to keep this chick around."

You brush away the itch under your chin and chuckle, because Santana is being completely serious and the two of you are one and the same. You both take and take and take.

"I just wanna get high and play some video games before I have to go to work later, but she's taken my TV hostage because she's watching American Idol."

"Ooooh," Santana grimaces, as if recoiling from flames. "That's rough. American Idol fucking sucks." She passes you the slightly diminished joint and folds her arms across her stomach. "What time do you have to be at the bar?"

"Ten," you answer, lifting the flaming joint to your lips.

"Well you needs to tell the midget that she has to be gone by then, otherwise you might come back and find us fucking."

You frown deep, quickly disguising it as a reaction to how harsh the tokes are on your tonsils. "If you're ok with sloppy seconds."

Since she knows you, Santana laughs hard and long. "Okay, I get it. She's yours. I'm hearing you loud and clear."

Good, you think.

But that's a far cry from what you actually say. "She's not mine. She's married and I'm not a relationship person, remember?"

"Well she sure as hell thinks you're hers. She may not have admitted it to herself yet, but the poor bitch is in love with you."

Your bedroom is stricken with icy silence when you walk in and shut the door behind you. The Xbox, which you always leave down on the floor, hooked up to the TV, is nowhere in sight.

Rachel's staring straight ahead at the television, like you haven't even entered the room.

"Where did you put my Xbox?" you ask, making a concerted effort to remain calm, because you know that this woman is going through a lot right now with her divorce settlement and everything, and you know that she's not made of the stuff that's necessary to survive Hurricane Quinn. Nobody is.

"I haven't touched your crummy Xbox," she mutters, her voice sharp, low, and tight.

"Funny that. It was here when I left, and now it's not. Doesn't take Einstein to work out that you hid it because you wanna keep watching this bullshit."

Rachel ignores you _and_ your sardonic tone.

Clearly she's not in the mood for giving out clues today, so you look under your bed, in the bottom of the closet, and in a few drawers, all whilst she's sat comfortably on your bed watching the horse shit that is American Idol.

When you rip the TV's plug out of the wall mains, she glares you down, and when you move around the room to get to your weed drawer - because now you want another joint - the adorably non-threatening glare follows.

"Your Xbox is in the living room, beneath the mess of books in the corner. Now plug the television back in."

You don't look up from where you're rolling your joint. "What you need is a good fuck. Maybe then I'll get some peace and quiet before I have to go to work."

"Shut up," she huffs.

You cheeks pinch with a smirk. "Such a firecracker."

"You haven't seen anything yet!"

"Promise?" you husk.

Her lips purse tightly. "You're a perverted low-life."

"And you're a closeted perverted low-life, princess."

"Stop calling me princess!" she grumbles.

"But that's what you are."

You can't get over how you can be seething at her in one moment and ready to let her ride your jaw loose in the next. The woman is extremely gorgeous when she's in a mood. Everything raw about her energy comes to the surface, and everything manicured sinks.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," you tell her.

"Whatever. A moment ago you were telling me to go back to my rich pals," she snipes.

You drag your tongue along the earthy brown joint paper, and roll it complete, watching her the entire time. "This is... not what I signed up for, that's why."

"You should have thought about that before you took my panties off, and gave me my first ever orgasm."

You stand there for a few seconds, beating the joint off of your thigh, and then you say it. "First ever orgasm or not, you can't be here as often as you are. I'm not your girlfriend, and I'm a dick when I don't get my me time."

That seems to do it, because Rachel's out of you bed in an instant. "Where are my clothes?" she barks, glancing around with manic crazed eyes. She tugs off the long baggy t-shirt that she found in your closet, and her pert soft dusky breasts jiggle just a touch with the motion.

She's beautiful and doesn't even know it. The memory will never leave you - how panic-stricken her eyes were the when she'd begged you to leave the light off the very first time that you'd sat her down at the foot of your bed, and dropped to your knees between her legs. There had been something about her shuddering, gasping, and arching up against your mouth in the dark that had driven you wild. It's buried inside of you.

But that was then. This is now, and it's time to shake off the Rachel-induced stupor.

"Come on; when you were a little girl, did you really dream of being with someone half your age who has shaggy pink hair and no fucks to give?"

Rachel whirls past you, snatching her clothing up from various different places.

"Princess," you murmur, wrapping your fingers around her wrist and anchoring her to the spot.

Her brown eyes shimmer with something indecipherable, avoiding your face at all costs. That's probably a good thing, because you've made your eyes hard.

"I'm not your girlfriend," you repeat, needing to know that she's hearing you.

"I fucking know that!" she yells, tugging her wrist free of your gentle clasp, like it burns. "You make it abundantly clear at every opportunity! I don't even know what I'm doing here!"

You know what's she's doing here. She's part of a long line of women who've thought that they could weasel their way into your heart, given enough time and dedication.

With that thought you sigh and drop down to the squeakiest spot on your bed. "Where are you gonna go? I'm not just gonna let you leave if you have nowhere to go."

"Do you even really give a shit?" she snaps, gathering up her things. "You don't even like me. You just want my body."

"Look lady, your body's incredible but I do actually like you. Once you started to relax into yourself, I figured you were kinda cool." You shrug, knowing that some part of her needed to hear that from you.

Rachel's movements slow, but they remain sharp and angry, almost like she's now having to put effort into making them so.

It's funny to you until she slings her bag down and sits herself down on your lap. The weight isn't too much or not enough.

It's just right.

She tattoos your eyes with her weighty gaze, but her lips are stoic.

"What?" you ask.

Her eyes sear with intensity, and you almost want to look away because it feels like a lot to take on.

"Talk or get off of me, princess," you murmur light-heartedly.

It's then that she closes her eyes and gently brushes her forehead against yours, from left to right and back again. Her full lips radiate this purring blanket of warmth and sensuality.

You're smart enough to keep your eyes open. You use them to stare at the woman that is softly nuzzling your nose with her own, and you don't know what to think.

It's a small sensation that shouldn't reverberate up and down your spine at all, but when you feel her eyelashes sweep against your forehead, you breathe deep and tremble a little.

Then she pulls back and trails your right eyebrow with her fingertip. "You're not as opaque as you like to think you are, Quinn. I have sixteen more years of life experience on you, and because of that I can see you," she whispers, warm rushes of her breath gently tap-dancing against your top lip.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey people. I just wanted to say thanks for all of the comments. Many of you want me to continue but I don't really have the time. I was late with the prompt to begin with lol. I may jot little notes down here and there and we'll see if they turn into future chapters.

TheNakedApe xxxx


	4. Chapter 4

I guess that this is now a three shot. It is only short, but hopefully it gets what needs to be gotten across, across. Any and all typos are mine.

**The Lady and the Punk**

Chapter Three

Your neighbor wants to fuck you. _She_, Nancy, wants to fuck you. The demonic glances, the dead dragon flies through your letterbox, Santana's flat tires - they're all a result of a communal garden party that took place a year ago, wherein you'd sent her to the Emergency Room, with a gaping split in her bottom lip.

She'd slipped her chubby hand into the waistband of your skirt, whispered obscene promiscuities into your ear, and pressed herself, firm and oppressive, against your body, to which you had panicked in your drunken stupor, and smacked her into another orbit.

Even so, your neighbor still wants to fuck you. _She_, Nancy, still wants to fuck you. The woman - if you can call **it** that - is so obvious that Rachel, equipped with her suspicious lingering squint, seems to have noticed too.

Or maybe Nancy's not that obvious, and Rachel only recognizes Nancy's need to conquer your body because she, too, is ruled by it.

She's tried almost everything to get you to let her touch you. There have been gifts, romance, songs, and seedy little strolls in the forest, none of which have earned her what it is that she wants. Your creamy blushed breasts, your soft pink pussy, your heart-shaped ass - they've become this great mystery to her, you're certain of it. A challenge upon the desperation that already plagues her.

There are times when you catch her watching you, drool spilling out the corner of those plump lips. She's a pervert who doesn't really like to admit it, and you love knowing that you've turned her into this desperate former shell of herself, whose current main goal in life seems to revolve around getting you naked so that she can do perverted things to your body.

And now, because of your sadistic fascination with starving her of her need, tension actually exists between the two of you.

Real tension. The kind that you witnessed as a kid. The kind that sees mother's coveted bone china plates shatter the moment that they're flung to the ground.

To you, it's all very... interesting.

But it's about to get real. You can feel it in every silence, including this one.

There's a crash just behind you, in the kitchen. You don't throw a look over your shoulder, because it suspiciously sounds a lot like some bone china has just shattered, and it's not like you don't know why Rachel's frustrated.

For once, you're at her place. It's new; paid for with a chunk of her divorce settlement money, so it doesn't yet speak of the infinite number of zeroes that define her bank account. But you're sure that with time, it will.

Not that you'll actually be around to see these walls accumulate character.

Purposeful footsteps pad the laminate floorboards, growing more pronounced with every motion. The first thing that you see are her cute little tan toes.

"I'm up here, Quinn!" she demands, curt.

Smirking, because you can feel **the** argument coming on, you push the thick book of word search puzzles to the side, and roll your dirty gaze up her body.

"I think that you should show me your bedroom," you purr lewdly, pushing her closer, and closer to the tenuous edge of that cliff. "I haven't seen it yet, and I feel like I should know where you keep the vibrator that you imagine to be me when you're alone."

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor, and she's stood over you, her jaw strained tight.

You don't know why, but the fact that you're having to peer up at her, for a change, makes your sex hum.

"Okay! You know what? That's it! I'm done!" the beautiful little woman blows. "Dinner's ready but you aren't getting any until I get some answers! And until further notice, sex is off limits!"

A low chuckle bumbles around in your throat, cocky even to your own ears. So when Rachel stomps her foot, you get it. You get that she's furious.

"What are the questions to these mysterious answers?" you humor her, like a cat humors a mouse... before swallowing it, tail first.

She taps that foot to the floor, steady but stern. "Why won't you let me touch you?"

It's so anticlimactic, at least to you it is, simply because you're a much bigger drama queen than Rachel could ever hope to be, and you'd been yearning for fireworks.

Yearning for the fireworks to drown out your gun shots.

"We already went over this, princess. I told you; bottoming does..." you drawl, casually nodding your head towards your shoulder. "Very little for me."

"I don't believe you. I think it's deeper than that."

"That's up to you."

You watch her face snarl, like you've taken pins to her fingertips. "Why am I always the one doing all of the work when it comes to this relationship?" she snaps.

You pick that word search puzzle book back up and flick through it. "This isn't a relationship. I don't know how many times I have to tell you."

"Well, are you practicing cunnilingus on anybody else?"

Your fingers halt amongst the blur of pages, and you peer up at her, giving her searing eye contact.

She's hurting. You can see it, and just like that you're deeply conflicted over how hard you're going to bring down the knife that will sever the connection between the two of you, forever.

"Answer me, Quinn!"

"No."

"No, you're not going to answer me? Or, no, you're not going down on anybody else?" she urges impatiently.

"I'm not having sex with anybody but you."

Her shoulders uncoil just a touch before she squares them. "Then this is a relationship," she says, so certain. "I'm the one that you come to when you want sex, and I'm the one that you snuggle with at night. I'm the one who you don't mind losing to on the Xbox! In fact, you throw certain bouts so that I'll win! And last but certainly not least, I'm the person who sees the fear in your eyes when you're uncomfortable with how close I'm getting!"

You think that it's sad that she thinks that those things constitute a relationship. Or maybe it's the other way around, and you are the one who is mistaken. But you don't say that. You say nothing.

"Quinn, give me _something_!" she exclaims, with her usual big expressive eyes and flying hands.

You adjust the black bandana that knots at your forehead and shrug. "I don't throw those games. I guess you're just that good."

"If you're afraid of my touch just say so, like a normal human being," she goads.

"I'm not afraid, Rachel. I just don't want an over-the-hill, loud, nagging wifey, whose idea of a good time is being able to correctly name all of the different pieces of cutlery at the dinner table."

You say it with such aloof spite that Rachel gasps, presses her hand to her chest, and does a double take of your face.

You're not an outwardly spiteful person. God knows you should be. But you're not. You've been crude, and obnoxious, and flirtatiously insulting - and just a downright pest - where Rachel's concerned.

But you've never been spiteful.

Until now.

"Get your things and get out of my house," she commands, her voice equally as calm, yet equally as enriched with spite.

This is what you've been waiting for - your dismissal. This is it, your chance to set her free.

So you rise to your feet, keeping careful watch of her face as you fling the puzzle book off somewhere behind you.

She glares you down, clearly disgusted by your disrespect for her home. "You are _such_ a fucking worthless asshole! Gather your shit and get out!" she fumes, her chest thrashing up and down with each breath that she tugs and shoves through her lungs.

"I'm leaving. Chill," you patronize her with your light tone, and your smart-ass little smirk.

That puzzle book suddenly crashes into the wall beside you, and the weighty impact is quickly chased away by Rachel's shrill scream: "Well get the fuck out then!"

You slip out of the front door, like the ghost of what once was, murmuring, "have a nice life, princess."

Though you're not entirely sure who to.

And half an hour later, when you walk into your apartment to a nonchalant hello from Santana, you hide what hell you're feeling so well that even you can't find it.

* * *

:(

And Rokpest, no need to growl at me lol, though you may have just cause after this chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**ANONIMUS, Quinn's not currently sleeping with Santana, and wasn't when her and Rachel were sleeping together, though Quinn and Santana did do the nasty when they first moved in together.**

**I have had fun writing the last two chapters during my time off. Not sure when the next chapter will come though, because I am back at work tomorrow :(**

**Thanks for the previous reviews.**

**Any and all typos are mine.**

* * *

**The Lady and the Punk**

Chapter Four

You've told yourself that you're a good guy, even if the very substance that firms your bones sings a symphony of utter darkness.

What you've done, placing both hands to Rachel's back and shoving her out of your life so that she can go and enjoy the rest of her own, is good. Utterly selfless.

She's even said it herself, a handful of times - that you're completely wrong for her, and she's right. You were not going to rob her of her precious years, not whilst her Mr or Mrs Right is out there... waiting. Not whilst the children that she's already picked out names for are _waiting_!

It would've been a disaster anyway.

She would've gotten bored of your lacking ambition. Bored of your lacking direction. She would've exhausted herself trying to figure you out. Exhausted herself trying to figure out why you do the things that you do. She would've grown tired of having to pay for all of the expensive activities that she would have wanted to share with you.

Realistically, she would have worn herself down into chronic illness trying to change you.

Realistically, she would've despised you within a year of the relationship.

And you her.

It's for the best that you haven't seen the gorgeous little woman, who you can't help but call princess, in over three months. You hope that she's abroad, somewhere exotic, sailing lush blue frothy waters with some chivalrous beau.

It's for the best.

It's for the best!

It's also for the best that you grab some snacks, pronto! You're hungry, stirred famished at the hands of those five joints that you smoked earlier. So the fact that you've somehow found yourself in the nearest twenty-four-hour grocery store makes all kinds of sense.

As you pass certain surfaces, you see that your eyes are flamed red, facilitating the blissful haze that clouds your head. You would have smoked another had your finances allowed for it.

But you've only got twenty dollars to your name, and the colorful packets of sweets that are neatly rowed off on the shelves before you, are demanding that you purchase them. Now!

It isn't long before you're shoveling packets of gummy bears into your basket. Each bag thuds into the one that lands before it, and the sound becomes quite pleasant, after a while.

You feel happy. You've got your snacks, you're sufficiently stoned, and you're not thinking about Rachel.

Life's swell.

It's swell, at least, until you happily plod to the end of the aisle and round the corner... only to see _her_.

It's like the universe's plan has sewn its last stitch - the way that those dark eyes lift and glide to yours. They still upon you for a brief moment and blink, saying absolutely nothing, before they glide down into the basket that is fastened within her grip.

You're suddenly stricken with the realization that you don't have that hold over her anymore, and though you tell yourself that that's the very result that you'd been going for when you'd insulted and pushed her out of your life, there's a large part of you that fucking hates it.

Night and day begin to battle within you.

Not that you're sure which is which anymore.

You do know that you can make this easy though; you can go to one of the self-checkout machines that isn't nearby Rachel's. You can ring your shit up, and you can get the fuck out of here.

But something gears your feet to the machine that neighbors hers. Morbid curiosity, perhaps; you're not sure.

She's adopted this stoic facial expression, now that you're stood just inches from her. But she seems to be getting through the palpable tension, even striking up pleasantries with the old guy to her right.

You're not even hiding your gaze. You can't be fucked to, and you need to make her feel just as uncomfortable as she makes you. So you stare at the side of her face like you're going to win a prize for holding focus.

She's still beautiful, in every way. Beautiful like the fiery little Italian cupcake that she is, and you feel like you'd give anything to smell her hair.

Her skin.

That warm needy scent that **is** her when she is wet and swollen and grinding out a rhythm against your mouth.

"Rachel," you say, before you can reel in your embarrassing lack of self-restraint.

The old guy that she's giving her over-the-top plastic little giggles to glances at you, and then at her. He frowns, raking his fingers through the scant strands of hair that he has left. But other than that, he allows himself to be roped into another one of her winding sentences.

"Rachel," you repeat yourself, a little louder this time.

Like your increased volume is the stick of dynamite up the ass that she needs, she quickly rings up her last item, subjecting all three of you to this stony silence.

The old guy feels awkward. You can feel it. He looks like he's attempting to reconcile the lovely woman that he was just talking to with this new person, who's blatantly ignoring you as she feeds the machine her money.

A nickel, or two, suddenly slip from her fingers, and you're crouching to retrieve them before her knees can even consider the drop. It's the excuse that you use to stand and enter her personal space.

"Be more careful next time, princess," you tell her ear, as you place the coins on top of the machine that she's using.

"Get away from me, before I tell the security guard that you tried to snatch my purse!" she hisses, summoning all the venom of a rattlesnake. She looks you up and down out of absolute disgust. "It would hardly take a stretch of the imagination for him to believe that someone who looks like you would try to rob someone who looks like me, would it?"

The fact that you're amused by her spiteful little dig is another reason why you're not right for her. You're supposed to be hurt by it, but you just want to touch her until she comes, and maybe snuggle afterwards.

That, and there's the part of you that revels in the fact that she's being this way, because it means that she hasn't yet found an antidote for that which she feels for you.

It means that when it comes to this thing between the two of you, she's in exactly the same space as you.

"Do you like my new pictures?"

You watch your unexpected question fall over her face, like darkness that she's trying to cast out with artificial light. She schools her traitorous eyes as though her life depends upon it.

She can school them all she wants, because you know that she's visited the Pixie Chicks website in the last three months. You know that she's seen those new pictures, wherein you're eye-fucking the shit out of the camera whilst completely nude, save a pair of grungy black boots.

"Tell me," you murmur, gravitating close enough to smell her hair.

"If I have to tell you to back off one more time, I'm either going to alert the security guard or sock you." She gathers up her change and her bags of shopping, bids the old man a pleasant goodbye, and then walks away.

Those gummy bears, your hunger - you leave them behind in the store to follow after her, because you miss letting her beat you on the Xbox, and you're selfish.

A selfish butthole, who misses her.

She's quick in her heels though. They clatter across the concrete like a quick succession of gun shots, until she's slipping into her silver Mercedes Benz and starting up the smooth sophisticated engine.

You catch her just as the tires begin to roll. They jerk to a disgruntled halt when you step out in front of the vehicle.

Here's your chance, and you're all too aware that this may be your only one. "I did us both a favor. I feel like you should know that. Not that you don't already."

She doesn't wind her window down so that she can respond. Instead, she maneuvers her tires around you, and speeds out of the parking lot.

You don't blame her. You'd do the same.

Even so, this hurts. **This** is exactly what you'd been trying to avoid all along.

* * *

:(


End file.
